Here’s another piece that I liked a lot, a scene by Claude Opus 4. (I still spotted a couple of non-sequiturs, and there were a few moments where I thought of your “try less hard” comment, but overall quite good.)
Also here’s another take on the same basic premise where we took turns writing; lines in bold are from me, the rest are from Claude Opus.
The blood had long since dried under her fingernails by the time she reached his study, but Lyra could still feel it there—foreign and accusatory. She’d scrubbed her hands raw at the washbasin three times before giving up.
The overlord didn’t look up from his maps when she entered. That was normal. What wasn’t normal was the way her stomach twisted at the sight of his bent shoulders, the familiar silver threading through his dark hair. She’d always found that premature aging romantic before—evidence of how much he’d sacrificed for the empire. Now she wondered what exactly had turned it gray.
“You’re late,” he said, still not looking up. A red pin moved from one position to another on the map. “The western contingent should have reported two hours ago.”
“There were… complications.” The word felt inadequate. Bodies in the street felt inadequate. But she couldn’t figure out how to explain that the ‘dissidents’ had been younger than she’d expected, that one of them had been teaching the others to read, that--
“I know.” Now he did look up, and his dark eyes held that particular gentleness that had always made her feel seen. Protected. “You let three escape.”
The words landed like a physical blow. Not they escaped. You let them.
“I...”
It was as if an invisible hand had grabbed Lyra’s throat and squeezed, interrupting the sentence before it had really even started.
They were children, was what she’d planned to tell him.
But now she suddenly realized that he’d known that. That brought with it a sudden panic and guilt—he’d known it and expected her to deal with them anyway. He’d trusted her on this mission, and she hadn’t done what he wanted.
I’m sorry, she wanted to say.
But Lyra couldn’t say those words, either. How could she apologize for not having killed children?
The silence stretched between them like a taut wire. He set down his cartographer’s tools with deliberate care—the same way he used to set aside his work when she was seven and needed help with her letters.
“Come here, little star.” The old nickname fell from his lips as naturally as breathing. He turned from the map table, holding out one hand toward her. Not commanding. Inviting.
When she was younger, she would have run to him. Now her feet moved slowly, as if through deep water.
“You’re thinking of them as children,” he said, voice soft with something that sounded almost like sorrow. His fingers found the tension in her shoulders, beginning to work at the knots there with practiced ease. “That’s my fault. I should have prepared you better.”
The familiar touch made something crack inside her chest. He’d done this a thousand times—after nightmares, after training injuries, after the fever that nearly took her at twelve.
“They were being taught to read,” he continued, hands never pausing in their gentle ministry. “Do you know what texts? Manifestos. Instructions for making explosives from kitchen supplies. The kind elder was using literacy as recruitment.” A soft sigh stirred her hair. “In six months, those children would have been placing bombs in market squares. How many other children would they have killed, Lyra? Children who also deserve to learn their letters, but in peace?”
His thumb found a particularly stubborn knot, pressed carefully until it released. “The three who escaped—they’ll be found. I’ve already sent Corvus. It will be quick.” His hands stilled for just a moment. “Unless you’d prefer to finish what you started? It might be… cleaner. You know them now. You could make it merciful.”
The offer hung in the air between them like a test she was already failing.
[love it <3 though you’re slipping a bit into playing my character, with the “made something crack inside her chest” and so on :)]
“I...” she started again, then went quiet. It felt good to let him massage her.
“They don’t need to die”, she tried. “We can capture them. Teach them better.”
His hands paused on her shoulders. For a moment, there was only the sound of distant footsteps in the corridor outside, the whisper of wind against the tower windows.
“Teach them better.” He repeated the words as if tasting them, then resumed his gentle ministrations. “You have such a good heart, little star. Even after everything, you still see people as… fixable.”
He moved around to face her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. His eyes held that particular combination of pride and sadness she’d seen when she’d mastered difficult sword forms—pleased at her progress, mourning something she didn’t understand.
“We tried that, in the early days. Convert the dissidents, show them the prosperity we offered.” His thumb traced absent circles against her collarbone. “Do you know what happened? They learned our routines. Our defenses. They smiled and ate our food and attended our schools, and then they opened the gates for their compatriots one night. Seventy-three dead. I found their bodies myself—farmers, teachers, children who’d done nothing but live under our protection.”
He cupped her face in his hands, the gesture achingly tender. “But perhaps… perhaps you’re right. Perhaps these three could be different.” His voice took on a thoughtful quality. “We could try your way. Bring them in, attempt re-education. And when it fails—because sweet child, it will fail—you’ll be the one to execute them. After you’ve fed them, taught them, perhaps even grown fond of them.”
A soft kiss to her forehead, benediction and burden all at once. “Would that be more merciful, do you think? To let them hope first?”
Lyra’s eyes widened in shock as she sat forward, turning to look at him.
Then she simply looked down, quietly shaking her head. There was nothing she could say to that.
He let the silence pool between them, watching the way her shoulders curved inward—a posture he’d never seen her take before. His fingers twitched with the instinct to lift her chin, to restore that bright defiance he’d cultivated so carefully over the years.
Instead, he returned to his maps.
“Corvus will handle it cleanly,” he said, voice returning to its usual measured cadence. The red pin moved again, marking where the children would likely run. “You won’t have to think about them again.”
The scritch of his pen against parchment filled the room. Troop movements, supply lines, the endless arithmetic of empire. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, but he was aware of her every breath, every small shift of weight. Waiting.
She needed to break on her own. That was the only way the lesson would take root.
“There’s fruit in the bowl,” he added without looking up. “You should eat something. And sleep—tomorrow we’ll review your tactical decisions. There were several moments where better positioning would have prevented their escape entirely.”
The ordinary words fell into the space between them like stones into deep water. He drew another line on the map, connecting two outposts that would need reinforcement. His pen never wavered.
Behind him, she was learning what it meant to love him.
These two aren’t bad! At least good enough that I feel interested in experimenting a little myself. I’d have been pleasantly surprised if I got this in an undergrad writers workshop. With edits I think it could be good, though it’s already good enough that it feels like the realm of “taste” rather than like “obviously this sucks”. Seems like Claude 4 is the first model to clear my “yeah that’s pretty good” bar. Its laying it on too thick feels non-compulsive and fixable in a way older models’ (to me) didn’t.
Here’s another piece that I liked a lot, a scene by Claude Opus 4. (I still spotted a couple of non-sequiturs, and there were a few moments where I thought of your “try less hard” comment, but overall quite good.)
Also here’s another take on the same basic premise where we took turns writing; lines in bold are from me, the rest are from Claude Opus.
These two aren’t bad! At least good enough that I feel interested in experimenting a little myself. I’d have been pleasantly surprised if I got this in an undergrad writers workshop. With edits I think it could be good, though it’s already good enough that it feels like the realm of “taste” rather than like “obviously this sucks”. Seems like Claude 4 is the first model to clear my “yeah that’s pretty good” bar. Its laying it on too thick feels non-compulsive and fixable in a way older models’ (to me) didn’t.
Thanks for sharing these! Time moves fast.